


To Live a Life of Never-Ending Pleasure

by thishasnomeaning



Series: To Live a Life of Never-Ending Pleasure [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 15:58:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6290776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thishasnomeaning/pseuds/thishasnomeaning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life in Bazal was never-ending pleasure.<br/>It was a trail of kisses, placed on Erasmus’ collarbone, on his neck, and on his jawline. It was the taste of Torveld on his lips. It was the feeling of being full, filled by an insatiable prince. It was Torveld’s hands on him, caressing every square inch of his skin. </p><p>But what if never-ending pleasure is not everything Erasmus wants out of life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Live a Life of Never-Ending Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually very bittersweet. If you need something up-lifting, maybe this is not what you want to read right now.
> 
> Kudos who whoever had the idea of Damen declaring that every slave brought to Akielos will be free and Laurent inviting Erasmus to the wedding to free him. I don't know who came up with that idea, but it wasn't me. Sadly, it doesn't work out in this story. But I'd love to read a story there this set-up does work out.
> 
> Warnings for drug use in combination with sex.

Life in Bazal was never-ending pleasure.

It was a trail of kisses, placed on Erasmus’ collarbone, on his neck, and on his jawline. It was the taste of Torveld on his lips. It was the feeling of being _full_ , filled by an insatiable prince. It was Torveld’s hands on him, caressing every square inch of his skin. It was being teased and played with for hours until he was allowed to come. It was getting lost looking into Torveld’s eyes. It was being called _beautiful_ and _perfect_ and _precious_. It was Torveld’s tongue licking and touching and _entering_ him in places Erasmus would have never dared to ask for. It was being praised for his skills and for his looks.

Life in Bazal was being honoured the way Erasmus was made to be honoured. Erasmus loved every second of it.

 

Erasmus spent most of his mornings, sometimes up until the early afternoon, in bed lazing about. He was ordered to sleep long enough and to rest well in order to preserve his youth and his beauty. For the same reason he was bathed and treated with a variety of massages, oils and ointments on a regular basis. Servants shaved him, cut his hair, trimmed his nails and painted his face. Not in the gross veretian custom, but using unobtrusive colours that highlighted his natural features. One of the slave-keepers was instructed to give him advice on what to eat and how to exercise so that he would neither grow too fat nor too muscular. Whenever he wasn’t needed in Torveld’s bed, to wash or dress him, to accompany and feed him at a banquet or to play a song on the kithara, he took time to practice his skills as a musician and further his studies, making good use of the huge library of Bazal.

 

In Torveld’s bed, Erasmus felt secure. Safe. He craved to see the way Torveld’s face lit up when he returned to his chambers from a long working day, to find Erasmus already waiting for him in bed. He craved to feel the touch of Torveld’s hands on his body, always tender, always gentle but still guiding him, pushing him slightly into the positions Torveld desired.

Erasmus was Torveld’s favourite slave, but some nights he was left to sleep in the harem. On these occasions Torveld made use of another of his slaves or invited a lover to his bed. The night after he always took extra care to pleasure Erasmus, almost as if there was something he had to apologize for.

 

One day _rumours_ started in the harem. This was odd, since it was not in the nature of slaves to gossip. But the nature of the rumours was just too strange and unheard of not to talk about. _Damianos of Akielos has freed all slaves in Akielos. Every slave who crosses the akielon border is automatically freed by law_. And: _Damianos of Akielos is going to marry Laurent of Vere_. It was clear what every single one of the akielon slaves thought about: What if they had stayed in Akielos? How would they have dealt with the new situation? The consensus was that they wouldn’t have liked the changes. Being free would be dangerous. No, having been brought to Bazal was a blessing.

 

And then were was the topic of King Damianos’ wedding. Damianos who had been enslaved and sent to Vere alongside twelve of the slaves who now lived in Bazal. Erasmus had seen a fellow slave in King Damianos. He felt ashamed now. There was no way he could face the King of Akielos ever again. Then he had regained his throne to rule over a united Verekielos. Together with his former master. King Laurent of Vere. And now, the King of Akielon was going to marry the King of Vere. No man in either Vere or Akielos had ever married a man. In Patras rare cases of such a tradition were known of, but not in Vere and not in Akielos.

 

It was the morning Torveld had left for the wedding celebrations. The huge bed Erasmus was waking up in already felt lonely. But Torveld had told him that he would miss him and that he was looking forward to coming back home. And he had promised to tell Erasmus all about the wedding. Slowly Erasmus rose from the bed and looked for the book he had taken with him last evening to read in bed while he waited for Torveld. Torveld had absentmindedly placed it on his desk, on top of a stack of papers. When Erasmus reached for it, a few pieces of paper fell down. He picked them up and took a look at them to see if there was a correct order in which he could arrange them. One of the papers was the wedding invitation by King Laurent of Vere and King Damianos of Akielos. It was a formal letter but at the end King Laurent had added a few words in his distinctive handwriting. They read:

 

Dear Prince Torveld of Patras,

I haven’t told my future husband about this because I intend this to be a surprise. I know that Damianos enjoys to hear your slave Erasmus sing very much. Would you be so kind and bring him so that he can sing on our wedding ceremony?

With best regards,

Laurent V.

 

But Torveld hadn’t taken him with him. Because every slave who would come to Akielos would be free and Torveld didn’t want Erasmus to be free. Erasmus felt a strange emotion somewhere down in his stomach he couldn’t quite figure out. Until he realized that it must have been relief. Or what else could he feel upon realizing that the life he knew, the life he was comfortable with living, would not change? Still, he had always thought that relief would feel better than it actually did.

 

When Torveld returned from Ios he told Erasmus all about the wedding ceremony and about the festivities that had went on for days. And he brought Erasmus presents. A book with Akielon songs that had been missing in the library of Bazal. A lenth of light blue, almost transparent cloth of the best quality for a new chiton for Erasmus. Torveld had bought it from a merchant named Charls. A selection of Akielon foods that Erasmus had missed in Bazal. But out of all the presents, Erasmus cherished the tales about the wedding ceremony most.

 

Erasmus’ mind was foggy. He was exhausted from what Torveld did to him in bed this evening and very, very satisfied. He had been treated with a good dose of the infamous pleasure drug to enhance his virility. Because this drug was known for negatively impacting a slave’s submissiveness he had also taken challis to counter these effects. Now, thinking was becoming difficult, melancholia was slowly setting in. Torveld was soothing him with hugs and tenderness and reassuring words. Sometimes, in such situations, Torveld asked him to pick a reward for his obedience. Then Erasmus asked for a kiss or a blowjob or some special food for breakfast and he got that.

This time, Torveld asked Erasmus to pick a reward again. But Erasmus couldn’t think. His mind was full wih the strangest thoughts. Memories were coming up he was sure he’d forgotten. “Pick a reward. Chose what you want.” Torveld’s words were echoing in his mind. What did he want? He wanted the man with the warm eyes and the strong hands who fucked him almost every night. Who knew his body better than anyone else, including himself. He thought about how his heart ached every time he was told to spend the night alone. How happy he was when he saw Torveld smiling. How happy he was to see Torveld happy. Torveld, who asked Erasmus for advice on political questions because he knew it would be good advice. Torveld, who told him things he would tell no one else, because he trusted Erasmus. Torveld, who didn’t bring Erasmus to a royal wedding because he didn’t trust him that much. Erasmus thought about all the kisses they had shared, all the mornings they had awoken next to each other. Erasmus couldn’t imagine a life without this man in it. What he wanted was Torveld.

But there was more. Things Torveld didn’t know about. Memories that there important to Erasmus that Torveld wasn’t involved in.

Every touch he ever shared with Kallias, up to that kiss. The moment he looked at the ocean and wanted to go someplace else. When he dared to imagine what it would be like. If he was not restricted to palace walls. Later, when he tried to be a good slave in Vere, and failed. And when he feeled betrayed by himself because he tried to fulfill his masters’ wishes that were impossible to fulfill, that were only designed to break him.

Now, his mind was jumping from one place to another, from Vere to the garden of Nereus to Torveld’s bed. Back and forth. Again, he was looking at Isthima, an island that was very far away and seemed very small because of the distance. A thought formed in his head: _I wanted to live in the world_. Suddenly he remembered a conversation with Prince Damianos who wanted to be free. _You must crave freedom more than I do_ , Prince Damianos had said. Erasmus didn’t understand, then. Now, he didn’t crave freedom. No, he didn’t. He didn’t know if he could. But he felt betrayed by something or someone that wasn’t himself. There had been something in him that had been taken away from him. Something he couldn’t quite name. Something that wasn’t so much taken away by force but by a promise of being praised and being cared for. Of being honoured.

The way he was now, Erasmus couldn’t understand the way Damianos had craved freedom. He couldn’t understand how he could have reacted to being branded in Vere in any other way than by enduring it. By trying to be obedient.

This had bothered him sometimes, and it bothered him now, more than ever.

He looked at the cuffs at his wrists. He liked them. They showed him that he belonged somewhere. To someone. To Torveld, who was the sweetest and kindest lover he could have ever wished for. But, he knew, other people had other ways of knowing they belonged to one another.

He thought about King Damianos and King Laurent who had married each other. He recalled everything Torveld had told him about the ceremony. Laurent and Damianos had publicly declared their love to each other, for everyone to hear. They had exchanged vows and promises. Of caring for each other, of respecting each other’s needs. They had said that they would fight but that they would seek reconciliation. That they would apologize to each other. They asked each other if they wanted to accept the marriage. And each of them said: _Yes, I do_.

 

Torveld repeated his question, asked him again, what kind of regard he wanted. And Erasmus started to blabber incoherently about marriage ceremonies. About the way King Laurent and king Damianos wore their cuffs for each other. About symbols of belonging.

He looked directly in Torveld’s warm, beautiful eyes and raised a hand to stroke Torveld’s locks that were of a dark brown with just the first silvery streaks mixed in. He lowered his hand and touched Torveld’s face, his lips. And then he touched Torveld’s bare wrist. Torveld’s wrist that wasn’t cuffed unlike the wrists of Damianos and Laurent who were kings and who belonged to each other.

“I want to marry you,” Erasmus said.

 

Torveld’s lips curved into a smile. It was a small smile. And a sad one. He moved over to the edge of his bed, putting some distance between himself and his slave. “You’re not going to get married.” Torveld said that with a tone of voice that would have been fitting for a noble giving a command to a subordinate. It was a tone of voice fitting for prince Torveld of Patras talking to his slave. It didn’t fit the way Torveld looked at Erasmus before. For the blink of an eye, when Erasmus had touched Torveld’s wrist, there had been something else in the expression of Torveld’s eyes. Something deeper than affection.

 

“This slave is sorry.” Erasmus was unable to hold back his tears. The tears he couldn’t cry during his training. Even when repeating the positions of submission again and again was physically painful, it was no reason to cry. It was a sign that he learned what he needed to learn. In Vere, there were times when he wanted to cry, but he couldn’t. Now the sight of Torveld made him cry. He, Erasmus, had forgotten all about his training. He had become useless. There was no way Torveld would want him any longer. “This slave is so so sorry,” he said between sobs. Again and again. “This should have never have happened. This slave has misbehaved. This slave is a disgrace.” He felt Torvelds arms wrapped around his body again, embracing him, trying to soothe him. Torveld kissed Erasmus. Slowly. Tenderly. Wiping tears away with his thumb on Erasmus’ cheek. “You’re not a disgrace,” Torveld told Erasmus, again and again.

Erasmus’ head was dizzy. Crying was difficult. Staying awake was difficult. Relaxing into Torveld’s embrace was easy. Just before he fell asleep he heard Torveld talking to him again. “You’re not going to get married. Don’t talk about this again,” he said.

 

That night Erasmus dreamed of years and years of never-ending pleasure.

In his dream, it was a trail of kisses, placed on Erasmus’ collarbone, on his neck, and on his jawline. It was the taste of Torveld on his lips. It was the feeling of being _full_ , filled by an insatiable prince. Torveld’s tongue in Erasmus’ mouth, Torveld’s semen in Erasmus’ ass, and Torveld’s words echoing in Erasmus’ head:

 

_You’re beautiful. You’re so good, so good for me. You’re precious. My precious boy. I know you enjoy that. You enjoy when I’m doing this to you. When I’m touching you here. You’re perfect. Such a perfect boy. You’re not a disgrace. Not a disgrace at all._

 

And then: _You’re not going to get married. Don’t talk about this again._

 

 

 

Later, much later, Torveld found that he was unable to ask Erasmus a simple question of only a few words.

 

The question was: Do _you still want to marry me?_

The reason Torveld was unable to ask was that he envisioned Erasmus’ answer to be _no_.

 

 

Meanwhile, life in Bazal continued to be never-ending pleasure.

 


End file.
